Precious

Precious

As we enter the gates of the Salvation Army compound, she is there, swinging around on of the poles. She is in her own world. But as Lynn steps out of the truck, she stops and squeals with delight. She limps over, barefoot on the hot stones.  They embrace and Lynn tells me this little girl has been here for the last four years. She looks to be about 14.  There are some mental disabilities.  She is a mute.  She is missing her front tooth.  She walks with a pronounced limp.  She has a limp left hand that is useless.  It is a dead weight.  She drools.  She is dusty but not filthy.  She is an orphan under her sisters’ care.  I can only assume that men have taken advantage of her.  She is so vulnerable.

She has no boundaries.  She stands next to me and slips her hand around my waist.  She rests her head on my shoulder.  Her wiry hair brushes my cheek.  I don’t like this contact.  It is too hot and she is too dirty for my comfort.  I try to squeeze away from her but she tightens her grip.  So I am left with no other recourse but to use some force to free myself.

“It’s too hot", I announce to everyone in ear shot.  I try to justify my behavior.

“She’s pitiful, isn’t she?”  I tell Lynn.

“I’ve seen her grow up.  I think she is precious.”  With that, in the blazing sun, Lynn gives her a full body hug and Pitiful squeals with delight.  I walk away, ashamed of my callousness.

For the next week, Pitiful is at my side.  I can’t get rid of her. She waits for me in the morning.  She joins me at the women’s group.  She sits next to me on the bench and rests her head on my lap.  When one of the translators barks at her to get off, she slithers down, next to me and leans on my legs.  I can’t get rid of her.

Sometimes when she is resting against my leg, she takes her one good hand and rubs my ankles.  Her dirty, dry hand feels like an exfoliate rag.  She looks up at me and I squirt her with my water spray bottle.  She giggles with delight. Sometimes she extends her hand to me.  She wants me to squirt her and again.  I do and she giggles with delight.

If I sit on any bench other than the one at the head of the classroom, she limps over and grabs my arm.  With determination, she leads me back to the seat she thinks is rightfully mine and mine only.

She rolls on the floor at times, oblivious to her surroundings.  Then she crawls back to me.  The women ignore her.  Sometimes they bark at her.  But mostly she lives in her own little world.

I discover that she loves to cut things with scissors.  So I find scraps of paper and scissors and instruct her to cut.  This occupies her time for a while.  Then she wants me to inspect her cuttings.

Beth, our nurse, comes to our group to give a talk on birthing.  Midway during her presentation, she turns to me and said, “She is in my way.”  Pitiful is resting quietly on Beth’s feet.

“Yea”, I tell her, “She is pitiful.  she won’t go away.  Just ignore her.”

But Beth is distracted by her.  So we find some paper and I wave scissors in front of pitiful and she crawls over to me.

Today, mid-morning, I notice that I haven’t seen her yet.  This is very usual.

“Has anyone seen her today?”  I ask the translators.

“Who?” one of them replies.

“Precious, I don’t see her.  I hope she is alright.”

With that, I spot her.  She is swinging on one of the poles, in her own little world.